War Storm

by Victoria Aveyard

  Anabel scowls, cutting a glare at Father. “Yes, House Skonos still remains split between our factions, with the majority remaining loyal to the usurper.” As if that’s our fault. We did what we could, convinced who we could. “Not to mention the Lakelands have skin-healer houses of their own.”

  With a sweeping hand and a tight smile, Davidson inclines his head. Wrinkles form at the corner of his eyes, marking his age. I suspect he’s forty or so, but it’s difficult to tell for sure.

  He touches his fingers to his brow in some kind of strange salute or promise. “Montfort will provide. I plan to petition for more healers, both Silver and Ardent.”

  “Petition?” Father sneers. The other Silvers match his confusion, and I find myself glancing down our line to meet Tolly’s eye. He furrows his brow. He doesn’t know what Davidson means. My stomach flops a bit, and I bite my lip against the sensation. Usually whatever one of us lacks, the other provides. But in this, we’re both at sea. And so is Father. Angry as I am with him, this scares me more than anything else. Father can’t protect us from what he doesn’t understand.

  Mare doesn’t understand either, wrinkling her nose in confusion. These people, I curse to myself. I wonder if even the scowling, scarred woman knows what Davidson means.

  The premier himself gives a small chuckle. The old man is enjoying this. He lowers his eyes, letting dark lashes brush against his cheeks. If he wanted to, he could be handsome. I suppose it doesn’t serve whatever agenda he has. “I’m not a king, as you all know.” He looks back up and turns his gaze on Father, then Cal, then Anabel. “I serve at the will of my people, and my people have other elected politicians to represent their interests. They must be in agreement. When I return to Montfort to request more troops—”

  “Return?” Cal echoes, and Davidson stops short. “When did you plan to tell us this?”

  After a moment, Davidson shrugs. “Now.”

  Mare’s lips twist. Fighting a scowl or a smirk, I can’t tell. But probably the latter.

  I’m not the only one to notice. Cal’s eyes flicker, looking between her and the premier with a growing suspicion. “And what will we do in your absence, Premier?” he demands. “Wait? Or fight with one hand tied behind our backs?”

  “Your Majesty, I’m flattered you consider Montfort so vital to your cause,” Davidson says, grinning. “I apologize, but the laws of my country cannot be broken, not even in war. I won’t betray the principles of Montfort, and I stand by the rights of my people. After all, they’re some of the people who will help you reclaim your own country.” The warning in his words is just as clear as the easy smile still pasted on his face.

  Father is better at this than Cal. He dons an empty smile of his own. “We would never ask a ruler to turn on his own nation, sir.”

  “Of course not,” the scarred Red woman adds dryly. Father takes her disrespect in stride, but only for the coalition’s sake. If not for our alliance, I suspect he would kill her, to teach everyone a lesson in propriety.

  Cal calms a little, doing his best to keep his head. “How long will you be gone, Premier?”

  “It depends on my government, but I don’t expect a long debate,” Davidson says.

  Queen Anabel claps her hands in amusement. She laughs, deepening the lines on her face. “How interesting, sir. And what does your government consider a long debate?”

  At this point, I feel like I’m watching a play led by mediocre actors. Not one of them—Father, Anabel, Davidson—trusts a breath out of the others.

  “Oh, years.” Davidson sighs, matching her forced humor. “Democracy is a funny thing. Not that any of you know that yet.”

  The final jab is meant to sting, and it does. Anabel’s smile turns frosty. She taps a hand against the table, another warning. Her ability can destroy with ease. Just like the rest of us. All deadly, all with our own motives at play. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.

  “I’m excited to see it for myself.”

  The temperature rises before the words are barely out of Mare’s mouth. She’s the only one who doesn’t glance at Cal. He glares at her, eyes burning, while his teeth worry at his lip. She remains resolute, her expression pleasantly blank. I think she’s taking a page out of Davidson’s book.

  Quickly, I put a hand to my mouth, stifling a surprised giggle. Mare Barrow is so wickedly talented when it comes to upsetting Calore men. At this point, I wonder if she plans it. Lies awake at night and schemes on how best to confuse Maven or distract Cal.

  But does she? Could she?

  On instinct, I try to smother the spark of hope that bursts in my chest. Then I let it bloom.

  She did it to Maven. Kept him occupied. Kept him off balance. Kept him away from you. Why can’t she do the same with Cal?

  “Then you will be a good envoy for Norta instead.” I try to sound bored, uninterested. Not eager. I don’t want anyone to realize I’m throwing the bone far away, knowing the puppy will follow. Mare’s eyes snap to me, her brows rising a centimeter. Come on, Mare. I’m glad no one here can read my mind.

  “No, she won’t, Evangeline,” Cal says quickly, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “I mean no disrespect, Premier, but we don’t know enough about your nation—”

  I blink at my betrothed, tipping my head. Silver hair slides across the scaled armor at my collarbone. The power I have in this moment, however small, snaps through my nerves. “And what better way to know? She’ll be well received, a hero. Montfort is a country of newbloods. Her presence will help our cause. Won’t it, Premier?”

  Davidson fixes me with his blank eyes. I feel his stare go through me. Look all you want, Red. “Undoubtedly.”

  “You trust her to report what she finds there? Without embellishment or omission?” Anabel scoffs in disbelief. “Make no mistake, Princess Evangeline, the girl has no loyalty to anyone with Silver blood.”

  Both Cal and Mare lower their eyes at the same moment, as if fighting not to look at each other.

  I shrug. “Then send a Silver with her. Perhaps Lord Jacos?” The older man, thin in his yellow robes, seems startled by the sound of his own name. He has a frayed appearance, like a worn piece of cloth. “If memory serves, you’re a scholar, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” he murmurs.

  Mare’s head snaps up. Her cheeks are red, but the rest of her seems composed. “Send whoever you want with us. I’ll be going to Montfort, and no king has the right to stop me. But they can certainly try.”

  Excellent. Calore tightens in his chair. His grandmother looms close, smaller in comparison to him. But their resemblance is still clear. Same bronze eyes, broad shoulders, straight nose. The same soldier’s heart. And, ultimately, the same ambition. She watches him as she speaks, wary of his response. “So Lord Jacos and Mare Barrow will represent the true king of Norta alongside—”

  His bracelet sparks, birthing a small red flame. It walks along his knuckles slowly.

  “The true king will represent himself,” Cal says, his eyes on the fire.

  Across the room, Mare clenches her teeth. It takes all my restraint to stay silent in my seat, but inside, I cheer and dance. So easily done.

  “Tiberias,” Anabel hisses. He doesn’t bother to respond. And she can’t press him. You did this to yourself, you stupid old woman. You named him king. Now obey.

  “I admit, I have some of Uncle Julian’s—and my mother’s—natural curiosity,” Cal says. He softens at the mention and memory of his mother. Admittedly, I don’t know much about her. Coriane Jacos was not a subject Queen Elara tolerated well. “I want to visit this Free Republic, and discover if all the stories are true.” Then his voice lowers. He looks at Mare with such intensity, as if he can will her to return his gaze. She doesn’t. “I like to see things for myself.”

  Davidson nods with a flicker in his eye, his blank mask slipping a little, just for a second. “You are most welcome, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.” Cal winks out the fire before rapping his knuckle
s on the table. “Then it’s settled.”

  His grandmother purses her lips, giving her the appearance of having eaten something sour. “Settled?” she scoffs. “Nothing’s settled. You need to plant your flag in Delphie, proclaim your capital; you need to win territory, win resources, win the people, sway more of the High Houses to your side—”

  Cal is undeterred. “I do need resources, Grandmother. Soldiers. Montfort has them.”

  “You’re very right,” Father says, his voice a deep rumble that puts an old fear in my heart.

  Is he angry with me for pushing this? Or is he pleased? As a child, I learned what it was to cross Volo Samos. You became a ghost. Ignored, unwanted. Until you earned your way back to his love with achievement and intelligence.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I look at my father. The king of the Rift sits tall on his throne, pale and perfect. Beneath his meticulously manicured beard, I catch sight of a smirk. And I breathe a small, silent sight of relief.

  “A plea from the rightful king of Norta himself will go far with the premier’s government,” Father continues. “And it will only strengthen this alliance of ours. So it’s only right I send an envoy of my own, to represent the Kingdom of the Rift as well.”

  Not Tolly—don’t! my mind screams. Mare Barrow promised not to kill him, but I hardly trust her word, especially under such opportune circumstances. I can already see it. A foolish accident that would be anything but. And Elane will have to go too, his dutiful wife at his side. If Father sends Tolly, we’ll get back a corpse.

  “Evangeline will go with you.”

  Nausea wipes out relief in a heartbeat.

  I’m torn between calling for another cup of wine and vomiting all over my own feet. Voices scream in my head, every one saying the same thing.

  You did this to yourself, you stupid little girl.

  THREE

  Mare

  My laughter echoes down the eastern walls and over the dark fields. I double over, hands pressed against the smooth parapet, gasping for breath. I can’t control it. True laughter, the deep kind from the pit of my stomach, takes over. The noise is hollow, harsh, and dusty from disuse. My scars bite, stinging along my neck and spine, but I can’t hold it back. I laugh until my ribs hurt and I have to sit down, putting my back against the cold stone. It doesn’t stop, and even when I bite my lips closed, little bursts still make it through.

  No one can hear me but the patrols, and I doubt they care about a single girl laughing alone in the darkness. I’ve earned the right to laugh or cry or scream as I see fit. Little pieces of me want to do all three. But laughter wins out.

  I sound deranged, and maybe I am. I certainly have an excuse, after today. People are still clearing bodies from the other side of Corvium. Cal chose his crown over everything I thought we were fighting for. Both are still bleeding wounds no healer can fix. Wounds I have to ignore right now, for my own sanity. The only thing I can do is put my face in my hands, clench my teeth, and fight my infernal, idiotic laugh.

  This is complete and total lunacy.

  Evangeline, Cal, and me, all headed to Montfort. What a terrific joke.

  I said as much in my message to Kilorn, still safe back in Piedmont. He would want to know about everything, as much as I could say. After I convinced him to stay behind, it’s only fair to keep him in the loop. And of course, I want him in the loop. I want someone else to laugh with me, and curse over what’s to come.

  I chuckle darkly again, tipping my head back against the stonework. The stars above me are pinpricks, dimmed by the city lights of Corvium as well as the rising moon. The stars seem to watch, looking down at the fortress city. I wonder if Iris Cygnet’s gods are laughing with me. If they even exist.

  I wonder if Jon is laughing too.

  The thought of him chills my blood, killing whatever manic giggle I have left. That wretched, prophesizing newblood is out there somewhere, having escaped us. But to do what? Sit on a hill and watch? Let his red eyes tick back and forth as we all kill each other? Is he some kind of game master, content to nudge us into position and play out whatever future he chooses? If it were remotely possible, I would try to find him. Force him to protect us from lethal fate. But that’s absurd. He’ll see me coming. We can only find Jon if he wants to be found.

  Frustrated, I scrub my fingers over my face and scalp, letting my nails drag across my skin. The sharp sensation brings me back to reality, little by little. So does the cold. The stone beneath my body loses warmth as night wears on. The thin fabric of my uniform does little to keep me from shivering, while the sharp, solid edges of the wall are hardly comfortable. Still, I don’t move.

  Moving means sleep, but it also means going back down. To the others, to the barracks. Even if I don my best scowl and run, I’ll have to face Reds and newbloods and Silvers too. Julian, certainly. I can just imagine him waiting on my cot, ready with another lecture. What he could possibly say, I don’t know.

  He’ll side with Cal, I think. At the end of all this. When it becomes clear we won’t let Cal keep his throne. Silvers are nothing if not loyal to blood. And Julian is nothing if not loyal to his dead sister. Cal is the last piece of her left. He won’t turn his back on that, even for all his talk of revolution and history. He won’t leave Cal alone.

  Tiberias. Call. Him. Tiberias.

  It even hurts to think the name. His real name. His future. Tiberias Calore the Seventh, King of Norta, Flame of the North. I picture him on his brother’s throne, safe in a cage of Silent Stone. Or would he drag out the diamondglass inferno his father sat? Destroy every shred of Maven, erase him from history? He’ll rebuild his father’s palace. The Kingdom of Norta will return to the way it was. Except for the Samos king in the Rift, everything will go back to what it was meant to be the day I fell into the arena.

  Making everything that has occurred since that day be for nothing.

  I refuse to let that happen.

  And, luckily, I’m not alone in this endeavor.

  The moonlight glows on the black stone, making the gold accents of every tower and parapet gleam silver. Patrols wind below me, guards in red and green uniforms keeping watch. Scarlet Guard and Montfort. Their counterparts, Silvers in house colors, are less frequent, and they clump together. Yellow Laris, black Haven, red and blue Iral, red and orange Lerolan. No Samos colors. They’re royal now, thanks to Volo’s ambition and opportunity. No need to waste their time on something as ordinary as the nightly rounds.

  I wonder what Maven thinks of that. He fixated on Tiberias so much, I can only imagine the weight of another rival king like Volo. Everything revolved around his brother, even though Maven seemingly had everything he could want. The crown, the throne, me. He still felt that shadow. Elara’s doing. She coiled and curled him into what she needed, cutting away and building up in equal measure. His obsession helped fuel his need for power, and enabled her own. Will it extend to King Volo? Or are Maven’s darkest and most dangerous desires restricted to us? Kill Tiberias, keep me?

  Only time will tell. When he strikes again, and he will, I’ll know.

  I only hope we’re ready.

  Davidson’s troops, the Scarlet Guard and our spreading infiltration—we’re enough. We have to be.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t take precautions.

  “When do we leave?”

  It took some dreaded social interaction, but I managed to ask my way to Davidson’s quarters. He commands some larger offices in the administrative sector, forming a suite currently filled with Montfort brass. And Scarlet Guard too, although Farley isn’t here. The officers take my entrance in stride, giving way to the person they still call lightning girl. Most busy themselves with packing. Papers, folders, charts, mostly. Nothing that actually belongs to anyone here. Intelligence for smarter people than me to devour. Probably left over from whatever Silver officers used this space last.

  Ada, one of my newblood recruits, is at the center of the activity. Her eyes run over every scrap of paper bef
ore someone else packs it away. She’s memorizing it all, using her ability of perfect memory. I catch her eye as I pass, and we share a nod. When we go to Montfort, Ada will be dispatched to Command at Farley’s orders. I don’t suppose I’ll see her again for a long time.

  Davidson looks up from his bare desk. The corners of his angled eyes crinkle, the only indicator of a smile. Despite the harsh, unforgiving light of the office, he looks handsome as ever. Distinguished. Intimidating. A king in power if not title. When he waves me over, I swallow hard, remembering what he looked like in the siege. Bloody, exhausted, afraid. And determined. Just like the rest of us. It calms me a little.

  “You did well up there, Barrow,” he says. With a toss of his head, he gestures in the vague direction of the core tower.

  I blink, scoffing. “You mean I kept my mouth shut.”

  At the window, someone laughs. I glance over to see Tyton leaning against the glass, arms crossed, his usual lock of white hair drooping over one eye. He has a clean forest-green uniform too, though a little short at the wrists and legs. No lightning insignia to mark him for what he is: an electricon like me. Because it isn’t his uniform. The last time I saw him, he was painted eyebrows to ankles in silver blood. He drums his fingers against his arm, brandishing them like the weapons they are.

  “Is that possible?” he says without looking at me, his voice deep.

  Davidson surveys me, shaking his head a bit. “Actually, I’m pleased with what you told the others, Mare. About accompanying me home.”

  “Like I said, I’m curious about—”

  The premier puts up his hand, palm out, to stop me short. “Save it. I think Lord Jacos is the only person here who does anything simply for the sake of curiosity.” Well, he isn’t wrong. “What do you really want from Montfort?”